


Eggnog Confessionals & Poorly-Kept Secrets

by ravenslight



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Christmas Party, Eggnog, F/M, In Vino Veritas, accidental confessions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:34:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27770815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravenslight/pseuds/ravenslight
Summary: Spiked eggnog sounded like the perfect remedy for finally telling Hermione Granger how he feels... until George finds himself accidentally drunk, lying on the floor of his flat, missing a sock, and muttering to himself.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/George Weasley
Comments: 13
Kudos: 97
Collections: The Marauders Advent 2020





	Eggnog Confessionals & Poorly-Kept Secrets

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Christmas! This has not been alpha or beta read because I am a procastinator, so any errors are entirely my own. Thanks for reading & I hope you enjoy this silly little Christmas fluff!

Festive music filtered up from Weasley Wizard Wheezes, the bass vibrating through the wooden grain George’s body is currently firmly pressed into as the world spins above him. 

One candy-cane striped sock covered his left foot, the tiny knit carefully encasing each of his toes in a bundle of warmth.

The other foot was decidedly naked.

Nothing else festive adorned his body save a mug wrapped haphazardly in a several-weeks-old copy of the  _ Daily Prophet  _ lying on his chest, his second-favourite green sweater—the one that brings out the golden flecks in his eyes—and a pair of nice jeans completing the outfit.

And George? 

Oh, George was well and truly arsed. 

It had started innocently enough.

Every Christmas party needed spiked eggnog. It was a rule of Christmas Party Etiquette.

At least it was if you asked George. Not that anyone asked him much of anything anymore, but he was sure he'd read that somewhere. Or perhaps he'd just made it up. 

Either way, it had started with spiked eggnog.

Firewhisky had seemed like the safest bet. Just a touch of cinnamon mixed into the bowl to give it a bit of flavour and help everyone loosen up. 

Help  _ him  _ loosen up.

And of course he had to try it to make sure it was up to his specifications.

Where the plan had gone off the rails was when he'd received confirmation from his youngest brother that Hermione Granger had indeed planned to attend the Weasley Party of the Century—okay, so the name still needed work, but he was out of time to workshop it, so it would have to do. 

Fred had always been the namer of the duo, but…

Well, that was also another reason for the eggnog. 

Easier to forget and whatnot.

Anyway, Hermione Granger.

There isn’t much that intimidates George, but Hermione does.

She’s fire and wit and everything that makes him go to the Ministry every day to file the stupid patents that he’s not even legally obligated to file for every new invention, but it’s ten minutes of sitting opposite her at a desk while she reviews them. He’ll take that if it means being in the same room as her.

When he’d visited Friday to resubmit the revisions on the Fizzing Whizbee patent, he’d finally mustered up the courage to invite her to the Christmas party.

She was supposed to say no. That’s how they did this. He visited her office, paperwork in hand, and spent ten minutes trying not to openly admire the way her neck arched as she reviewed the miniscule change that he could have just as easily submitted via owlpost. They would exchange witty retorts, and eventually she would return the paperwork with the rubber stamped approval across the top.

Rinse and repeat.

But she’d surprised him. She’d said she would come to the Christmas party he was throwing, and that had thrown all of his hopes into overdrive.

It wasn't, of course, every day that the witch who had held your fancy for years agreed to attend your holiday party—at least it wasn't for George—and so 'trying the eggnog' had devolved into finding liquid courage at the very bottom of the punch bowl, and at some point he'd ended up here, on the floor of his flat, while the ceiling spun above him and arse out of luck to get down the stairs to the actual party where the wild-haired witch had probably already caught the attention of a not-so-drunk wizard.

He’d planned it so meticulously. He’d test the eggnog to make sure it wasn’t too strong, drink enough to give everything the perfect shimmery haze of confidence that alcohol afforded, he’d ask her to dance, and then he’d find some witty way to tell her just how much he wanted to make those ten-minute meetings into a regular occurrence that had nothing to do with their respective jobs.

The door clicks open, the music momentarily growing louder before it was muffled again by the heavy wooden grain. Try as he might, George can’t roll his head to determine who the visitor was without the room spinning, and he promptly closes his eyes with a groan.

“George?”

Oh Merlin.

Merlin, Morgana, Circe, and even the strange little wizard from the mouse film that Hermione had coerced them all into watching ‘for nostalgia’s sake’ after the war.

Carefully, he peels one eyelid back from eyes that felt like sand had been poured right into them.

One blink.

Two. 

A third paired with another unheard plea to whatever magical beings are listening that he is somehow mistaken and that the very bushy-haired, beautiful witch he had inadvertently had just a  _ bit  _ too much alcohol over was not currently staring down at him with a bemused smile on her face.

“George, are you okay, or should I Floo the Healers?” Hermione says, her lips quirking up into a smile.

Belatedly, George pushes himself upright, thankful that he’d managed to at least clean the flat before the party started. 

A quick inventory of himself confirms that he is dressed and presentable save the singular missing sock, and he offers a crooked grin in response. “All good here, Hermione. I was just—uh—” He casts his gaze about the room, searching desperately for the sock he’d lost. 

It is, of course, across the room and over the back of the sofa, conveniently beyond the perimeter of acceptable tottering for a drunken man attempting to appear sober.

“Yes—?” Hermione prompts. Her eyes crinkle at the corners, a telltale sign that she’s holding in a laugh—George has learned all her expressions in a futile effort to determine the  _ exact right  _ time to tell her that he desperately wanted her to see beyond his jokes. When her gaze scans his appearance and finds him sans-sock, her laugh escapes in a quiet huff. “Looking for your missing sock?” 

Bashfully, George offers a nod, and with a small swish of the wand she keeps stowed in a holster at her side at all times—a precaution from all those months on the run, she’d once told him—the remaining sock flies across the room.

“Bloody good witch you are,” he mutters at her, smiling up from the floor.

If George weren’t drunk, he’d tell her that the light from the shop sign outside the windows cast her in lovely light, but… 

George was drunk, and for all his posturing otherwise, he was  _ not  _ adept with witches. 

Angelina had been an exception to the rule, primarily because they were far more alike than either of them wanted to admit. 

Hermione’s cheeks pinken, though George can’t tell why, but it takes far less effort to bend over and pull on his sock snugly onto his foot than stop himself from blurting out all the things he’s refrained from telling her. 

Finally, sock in place and the blush staining his ears calm, he cuts his gaze up at the witch who has occupied the majority of his free thoughts recently. 

He desperately wishes he had a Sober Up potion, but he claps his palms together and pushes upright.

For the briefest moment, the world spins, and Hermione darts to him, grabbing his elbow and peering up at him with a concerned frown. “Maybe we ought to—”

“No, no, I’m fine!” George crows, though the wobble to his stance betrays his declaration. Briefly, he worries that perhaps the world has decided that gravity no longer applies to him, and he plops into the seat. “On second thought, the chair has always been good to me.” 

“You sit,” Hermione says, her frown deepening, “and I’ll get water. It’s quieter up here anyway.”

Before he can wave her assistance away again, Hermione is off towards the kitchen. 

His flat is small, though it feels much larger than it had without Fred’s presence. With Hermione bustling through the kitchen, the space feels smaller even than it had with Fred, and he swears that he can smell her jasmine perfume as though she’s standing just before him.

“Were you already down at the party? I asked Ron so I could thank you for the invitation, but he said he hadn’t seen you,” Hermione called, cabinet doors opening and closing. “But I suppose that would require him removing his lips from Lavender’s for longer than the few seconds needed to get a drink of his firewhisky.” 

“I wasn’t,” George answered, scratching the back of his head. “I was—”

“Searching for your sock?” Hermione finishes gently, pressing the glass of water into his hand. It’s tinged slightly more blue than water, and she motions for him to drink. “Water and Sober Up potion; it’ll help.” 

It’s a lifeline even in his embarrassment, and he takes a deep drink of it while she settles across from him.

Beneath his feet, a Weird Sisters song pulsates in the shop in beat with his heart. 

“Something like that,” he answers with a laugh, the world becoming a bit clearer as he sips at the water. “Thank you for coming. I didn’t expect to see you.” 

Silence settles between them, and George itches to fill it, but Hermione beats him to it, a sly grin creeping across her face. “Yes, well I was told there would be spiked eggnog.” 

The blush is back in an instant, and George rubs at the back of his head. “About that…”

“Does it have anything to do with finding you on the floor of your flat? Because I’m sure that’s a story worth hearing,” she teases, poking at him with her foot. 

George cringes, dropping his head back against the chair. “It needed to be taste tested. I just happened to enjoy the taste.” He cuts his gaze to her, his stomach dropping to his toes when Hermione pushes upright to stare at him.

“And that’s it? That’s the only reason why you drank the eggnog?” she pushes, cocking an eyebrow at him.

He swallows, unable to meet her gaze. “Maybe we ought to get down to the party,” he hedges, standing and taking a step towards the door, but Hermione is there, hands on her hips and blocking his way.

“I don’t think so,” Hermione responds, tapping his chest. From her finger, warmth blooms outward, and he can’t tell if it’s the nerves racing through his veins or the cheeky spark that jumps from her fingertip at his touch. “Are you aware that you were muttering to yourself when I came in?”

George freezes, suddenly entirely sober. His mouth drops open, words failing spectacularly.

Hermione takes the smallest step forward, her eyes as wide and nervous as he feels. “How long?”

“How long,  _ what _ ?” he answers stupidly.

“How long have you been waiting for this?” she answers, breathless, and pushes up onto her toes. 

Her lips are soft against his, and George finds himself incredibly grateful for the chair at the back of his knees to keep him from falling back a step out of the kiss and for the water that had brought him more clarity than he had twenty minutes prior. 

Finally, after several suspended moments, George settles his hands on her hips and leans into the kiss with a laugh.

For as enamoured with her as he’s been over the last year, he hadn’t given himself permission to imagine what it might be like—this, kissing her, holding her. And as suddenly as it starts, it’s over, and she pulls away, breathless and cheeks tinged pink, but George won’t release his hold on her hips.

Not unless she asks him to. 

Now that he’s got her, he has no intentions of letting go.

“Longer than you know,” he belatedly responds, a giant grin splitting his lips.

She responds in kind, finally settling into the embrace and laying her hands on his chest. “I think I have an idea.” At George’s cocked brow, she huffs a laugh and rolls her eyes. “Do you  _ honestly  _ think I allow just anyone to waste my time with ridiculous paperwork every other day?” 

He cocks his head to the side, wincing just a touch. “No?”

“Only for you. I was hoping that it meant what I wanted, but—after Ron, I wasn’t sure,” she admits, gnawing on her lip.

At that, George throws his head back in laughter. “Don’t worry, ickle Ronnykins is fully aware and supportive of my poorly-kept secret crush.” 

A brief flicker of relief flashes across her face, but she presses up on her tiptoes and brushes her lips across the point of his chin. “Good to know.” 

It takes every ounce of propriety George has not to convince her to hide out with him in his flat, but he looks down at her with a crooked grin. “Shall we join the party?” George prods, pulling her into his grasp and revelling once more in the fact that she’s  _ there,  _ in his arms, and it’s not the product of too much eggnog.

“I don’t know,” she grouses, giving him a mock glare. “I was told there’d be spiked eggnog.” 

“I think that can be arranged,” he teases, summoning firewhisky from the cabinets and the one container of eggnog he hadn’t panic-drank as they leave the flat together. 


End file.
